


Ethereal

by BolterSexual



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: F/M, kind of not really ghost sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BolterSexual/pseuds/BolterSexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>purplekitte, this is kind of your fault even though you don't know me: i.e. chapter 5 of All This and Heaven Too</p>
<p>Inquisitor and acolyte psychic sexings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ethereal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All This and Heaven Too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/811974) by [purplekitte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplekitte/pseuds/purplekitte). 



The night is young and Leera becomes aware of the Inquisitor's focus on her, fleeting and hungry. Surely he's still engrossed in talks with the captain of a recently recovered kill-team, while she turns in for rest from the ordeal. Hawthorne will brief her later, she is certain of it, but it becomes apparent that the captain bores him and his mind ventures elsewhere. A chill crawls under the top-most layer of skin and the acolyte shivers, drawing the blanket closer to her head. There it is again if only for a moment, a predator's unseen senses catching the scent of it's prey. Leera can feel eyes on her and knows there are none there as the Inquisitor turns his attention once more to her. She is vulnerable and he takes note, but the acolyte is certain he's aware she leaves her guard lowered intentionally. There's another chill, one that weaves between the vertebrae of the spine, melting into the core of synapses in her skull. Under the thick layer of white hair, her scalp tingles.

He's growing more inattentive to the debriefing, or possibly it's concluded. There's no real way for Leera to know, save for when the ebb and flow is suddenly disrupted and the telepath strikes through the waves at her, a controlled, deliberate thread arcing through the warp to snare her for his own. The acolyte writhes her blanket away, the pinpoint lure hitting its mark perfectly and drawing the air from her lungs. There are no words in the Inquisitor's call, and there is no need for them. Hawthorne's focus completely turns to his charge in an agonizingly slow swell, a roiling tide that washes into her veins, the initial sensation frigid and not unlike an intravenous tap. Staring into the darkness of her own quarters, Leera struggles for breath, anticipating. His hands are on her, feather-light to bare flesh, ethereal in the solitude of her barracks. She arches against the touch, and it grows more firm, purposeful, as though decks of steel were not between them, the Inquisitor's slender fingers trailing along the ribs and gracing her breasts. A sharp inhale and the acolyte bites down a small moan, the intangible caress surprisingly dextrous as it captures a taut nipple, teasing the hardened flesh.

A warm breath exhales at her throat and before Leera can contemplate the sensation, impossibly real lips enclose at the supple skin. She finds herself reaching for his form above her and finding nothing. Seeking something, anything to touch, the acolyte turns her palms to herself, accenting her mentor's abstract, roaming, grasp even as it slips to her thighs, lighting up erogenous nerve endings. Squirming completely out from under the covers, she sighs out, eyes fluttering closed. She almost hears him speak, but it's pure intention, lacking any voice or timbre. _That's better_. Allowing herself a groan, each brush, every clutch at her figure multiplies in its intensity, soft heat emanating from some source other than her own blood coming to a slow boil.

There’s a pressure at the lips of her nethers, reminiscent of fingers separating the flushed-pink flesh, an insistent, familiar stroke teasing the entrance. The touch was almost chilled, a low growl rising up in Leera as her nails dug into the ivory of her thighs, her hips rolling up in near instinct. She finds his name passing her lips in a whisper, the snare in her synapses quivering between them, unstable as her own tendrils in the void attempt to reach back. She knows she won’t reach him, Hawthorne can and will easily refute the effort, retorting with an empyreal breach of her sex. A soft moan and another rock of her hips, the sensation of his tongue and hands on her form tenfold with his retaliation, near aggression in the way he burrows the hooks in her mind further still. It is chastising, sending a bolt of ice down Leera’s spine and bringing forth a full-body writhe. Nerve endings scream under the psychic weight of the Inquisitor’s ministrations, teasing his charge’s mind with the sensation of being penetrated, his breath hot on her skin, unseen hands working her like wet clay. The acolyte lets loose with a heavy groan, every sensory input thick with Hawthorne’s very essence. It’s almost as if he were closer, just within reach...

The slickness at her fingers is nearly beyond her own conscious knowledge, pleasure surging in sporadic currents. Again the voice of intention rewards her with another tense palpitation in the connection and Leera thrusts upwards with a guttural cry. _Almost, my dear_. Chest heaving, she pants an almost inaudible reply, but she knows he can hear it, imploring him for release. There’s a firm shock in the Inquisitor’s grip through the void and his charge recoils as the stimulation swells, the feeling of him abruptly deep within her raking a rough moan from her throat. A smirk crosses her features before giving way to teeth capturing her lip. She knows his control has wavered, no matter how quickly it’s recovered and replaced by the sway of a steady rhythm. Too perceptible, she hesitates in the thick fog of her senses, a momentary pause before being swept away in the current once more. He’s on the same deck, ethereal presence growing ever closer. _Press on_.

Cold perspiration beads at her snowy hairline, veins white-hot with ecstasy and body undulating, matching every wave, every pulse the Inquisitor sends her way. Leera chokes on her breath, thighs and fingers quivering, heart thrumming in her throat as the assault continues. Climax lingers at the frayed edges of her senses, coiling like a serpent around the threads he’s woven before striking, teeth bared at the base of her skull. There’s a crackling of energy that leaves as quickly as it might have been noticed and the acolyte belts a lewd cry into the pitch black of her quarters, no doubt rousing anyone nearby. Even as the onslaught recedes, she feels him near, her body shivering as the otherworldly presence persists: a kiss here, gentle caress there.

“Leera-”

Hawthorne’s voice murmurs at her ear, vastly different than the disembodied purpose travelling between them and her eyes flutter open. She very nearly bolts when seeing her mentor in the flesh over her, but is captured in a heated kiss before she has the chance to react. Her moan is muffled but she returns the affection hungrily, shuddering hands already moving to disrobe him.


End file.
